Daybreak
by Shakaka
Summary: He was never meant to survive; he was also never meant to become a plough horse. Joey was a box full of surprises, and living through a war-torn no-man's-land was no exception. This horse was a born fighter, a true War Horse.


**Disclaimer:** I am not Stephen Spielberg (director of _War Horse_ ) so therefore I do not own his works, all recognisable content belongs to him and his associates. No copyright infringement intended, and no profit made, I simply like to toy with the established ideas for my own amusement.

 **Author's note:** Hello, readers! As you can see below in the 'Dedicated to' section, this fic was inspired by and published because of a review in my previous _War Horse_ fanfic. This story is, in loose terms, a sequel to _Bravery_ as themes from that fic have carried into here.

 **Dedicated to:** _CreggaFoeseeker_ , for requesting this story after reading _Bravery_. I hope I've successfully written what you wanted to see!

So readers, please enjoy!

* * *

 **Daybreak**

 _"There he is: War Horse."_

* * *

Dawn came gracefully to the land smothered in suffocating darkness. With a subtle shift to the night's icy air and a change to the gloomy eastern sky, the once formidable black was broken by streaks of light that spread high into the clouds above, and though the hushed stillness of the dark hours did not change, the daunting shadows dominating the ground began to waver and weaken.

The silence to come with this new day was unusual as it stretched solidly from minutes to hours, and an uneasy tension began to rise. It was a bitter sensation which brought a mixture of emotions, for amidst the spine-chilling tang of fear there came the spicy traces of anger and sorrow, and the cruel burn of hatred.

These conflicting feelings were most apparent to the still, tangled beast collapsed on the forsaken land between enemy trenches. He had fallen early in the night on the previous day, so twisted in barbed wire and so utterly exhausted that he could not continue on.

Yet he fought, as subtle as the battle may have been, for when he had finally surrendered himself to the cold, muddy ground he had truly felt the pain, the fear and the regret. His eyes had slid closed in that prolonged hour of darkness and his frantic breathing had slowed to a strong, steady rhythm – but the bleeding had not stopped, nor had he slept.

Now, through the crisp scent of dawn there came the pungent scents of destruction – of blood, sweat and tears, of fear and hope, of metallic weapons and burnt wood.

Of war.

The bravery, the devastating pain and extraordinary loyalty, the mateship and loss – it was all present, all adding flavour to a land that had long since torn its ties and broken its bridges.

And as the grey streaks morphed to rich hues in the sky they began to shimmer artfully, catching the moisture of the night's rain only hours earlier. Their presence provided an unpleasant feel to the new day, for the colours streaking across the heavens were far from beautiful. They were a rich, deep red, a shade so vivacious they were unsettling as they held a silent promise. A foreshadowing.

For this war was far from over.

They spread further as the sunlight grew stronger, and when eyes finally rose to the sight above they saw nothing but the blood of the enemies they had shed and the lives they had taken, all stolen in a single, instinctive finger flex of the trigger.

It was a grim sight, a cruel reminder. A brutal morning prophesy.

And it was into this new world that the horse finally stirred, as the sun rose higher and the dust from enemy missiles finally settled to the ground. It had been hours before the animal had regained his strength or the inclination to budge, and when he finally shifted he knew the mud over his body had dried, the blood in his coat had cracked and the heart in his chest had slowed.

He lifted his head and peered around with quiet brown eyes, only to find the light of day brought a far harsher depiction of his reality.

It was through this still silence that the soldiers also stirred. A black-haired British adolescent clambered his way up the side of a trench as his friends murmured quietly amongst themselves. He collapsed heavily on his elbows beside them, his feet supported by the steps on the ladder, and peering with just his eyes over the edge of their fort he cocked a brow at the hostile, barren landscape before them. He shifted his gaze over to those nearby, his voice soft, "What are you two talking about?"

His mates jumped, turning startled to look at him and reaching impulsively for their weapons, before they realised who it was and relaxed.

The hazel-eyed man clad in a green turtle-shell helmet sighed, shrugging in bewilderment, "There's a horse out in the no-man's land."

"It's not a horse, Garrik," the blonde-haired fellow argued beside him, "It's a cow!" He leaned forward, catching the curious newcomer's gaze and muttering persuasively, "It _is_ , I tell you."

"And what would a cow be doing out there?" his mate queried sceptically.

"I don't know!" he shot back, tone clipped. "What would a _horse_ be doing?"

The inquisitive dark-haired investigator smiled, shaking his head at the pair. He reached out an arm – careful not to bring it above the trench walls – and twiddled his fingers. "Hand the spyglass over," he demanded, "I want to see."

Grudgingly, the pair passed it across their chests and gave it to him. Suffering both intense gazes, the boy lifted the telescope to his eye and scrunched his free eyelid shut. They were quiet a moment, only aware of each other's slow, steady breathing until the boy took the glass away and looked to his left, "It's a horse."

A moment of silence passed between them, before the pair next to him started bickering again:

" _I told you!_ I did, didn't I? I did!"

"It's _not a horse!_ " the blonde hissed defensively. "The Germans don't have them! Why would they have one in the trenches?"

"What do you mean they don't have them? It's not a cow!"

"It is!"

"It isn't! Why would they have a _cow_ in the trenches?"

A flawed pause passed between them.

"Well…they wouldn't!"

At the debate, various troops clambered up beside the trio, wondering what was happening. The Captain stared up at them, frowning.

"Then _how_ did it get _there_ —"

The pair only paused in their fight to stare at the boy when a soft, wounded sigh left his lips. Garrik, the hazel-eyed man who was closest to him, nudged an elbow to his ribs, prompting an agitated looked from the sufferer.

"What's up, son?"

"Poor horse..." the boy sighed, looking back out into the field where the faint silhouette of an animal was struggling. "Imagine how long he's been out there, in that barbed wire..."

"I think I heard him call out last night…" Garrik murmured ruefully.

"What, a horse or a cow?" the blonde asked.

"A horse, you _fool!_ "

The blonde shrugged, lifting his hands in a placating gesture and muttering quietly, "Just wondering..."

Both pairs of eyes shifted to the boy once more as he pulled something from his pocket: a white handkerchief. With shaking fingers, he raised it to the sharp point of his bayonet and propped it on, before taking a quick, shallow breath and lifting it above the trench.

" _What are you doing?_ " Garrik whispered, clutching desperately at the boy's elbow as he made to follow the movement of his weapon.

The boy turned to the left, catching the wild gaze of his friend and smiling weakly, "Saving him."

"Boy – "

"No." the young lad reefed his arm from Garrik's grasp and leaped up above the trench, holding his rifle high in the air as he did so. He crouched for a second, waiting for a bang, a bullet, sharp pain...but nothing came.

Slowly, he stood and took a step.

A German soldier in the distance fired a warning shot. It punctured the ground close to his feet and he faltered, freezing.

But still there was no pain, no blood, so he moved forward once more.

The enemy seemed to refrain themselves as the boy made his way cautiously across the desolate land. He kept his head down, watching as the mud oozed up around his dirty brown boots and squelched loudly with every step he took. The earth was torn, wounded with holes and craters and gunky pools of liquid – he avoided them where he could, but through the thick fog it was hard to see.

Multiple times he fell down into invisible potholes beneath his feet, landing heavily beside a cold body and grunting as he hauled himself back up. His legs were weak, his heart was racing and his eyes were wide, but it wasn't anticipation that kept him moving, it wasn't adrenalin. It was fear.

It was terror.

Yet still he moved toward the animal, slow as his progress was.

The horse tensed as a flicker from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He lifted his head, ears pricking forward as he listened to the quiet squeaking of mud beneath the young soldier's boots and the sharp, ragged breathing of his fear. The boy was youthful, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, and so very scared. The animal could sense his distress from here, it was potent and unsettling.

He watched as the boy stumbled and fell to his knees, the gun in his hands clanking quietly against the ground as he landed harshly. He nervously paused – waiting, perhaps, for a bullet – but nothing came.

Then the boy began to shake. He dropped his head, shoulders quivering as a strangled cry escaped his chest. He brought up his hands, skin filthy with mud and nails full of grime, and pressed them to his eyes. Quiet sobs left his chest, and the horse jerked his head in interest.

The beast called out softly, then, comforting the boy. The soldier glanced up, catching the desperate look in the animal's eyes and after a pause hauled himself to his feet with renewed vigour.

He had a job to do.

The steed's tired gaze followed the thin form as it weaved across the land, dodging wires, bodies and holes. He was a slow mover, his shoulders sagging and his face pulled down in a worried frown. He had a rather mournful appearance, but the horse was grateful for his courage – it was something to be admired.

Eventually, the boy reached the horse with exhaustion settled deeply in the stressed lines of his face. Filth was smudged across the pale flesh of his cheeks and salty tears clung to his eyelashes, but when he reached out and gently touched the horse's nose, his quivering lips smiled. " _I made it_ ," he breathed, collapsing on his knees before the trapped animal. His gentle hands roamed the warm coat and the horse leant his face silently, reassuringly into the boy's palm.

 _Yes, you did_.

"You poor boy…" the young soldier whispered, shuffling closer to gaze at the horse's body. It was tangled head to toe in sharp, callous wire, fresh blood oozing down over his coat, which was matted and filthy. "You poor, _poor_ horse," his voice broke, and the animal watched as the boy's eyes filled with tired tears.

 _I know_. _It hurts_.

"Darn! I should have brought wire cutters..." he muttered, gently tugging at a spike on the horse's neck. The animal groaned, and the boy pulled away quickly, gasping, "Sorry, _sorry_ boy!"

"Wire cutters!" a thickly accented voice called from the boy's left. His head whipped around in a mixture of surprise and terror, and his eyes watched as an object flew over the wall from behind the German army's fortress. It landed a little distance away with a quiet _thunk_ , and the horse shifted to look, ears twitching in curiosity.

The animal made a quiet sound of approval and the boy clambered to his feet quickly, but froze when a figure ghosted through the fog. He scampered back warily, groping at his rifle before the enemy raised his hands in a calming gesture, "Peace, boy." The young man hesitated, breath coming in short, sharp pants before he dropped his gun and watched as the German bent down to pick up the wire cutters, before moving closer.

When he was near enough, the boy got a good look at him: black hair, black moustache, skin darkened with dirt and broad shoulders. He was much older than the Brit, and much more experienced with the various shining metals decorating his chest. A green helmet, much like the British, rested atop his head.

When he spoke again, his voice was deep and commanding, "I'll need your help, boy."

Cautiously, the younger soldier stepped to the German's side and silently took hold of a length of wire, and the horse could feel the trembling in his hands. The German manoeuvred the cutter between the barbs and the horse's skin and squeezed the handles tight.

 _Chink!_ The wire flung back, tightening others cruelly across the horse's chest and narrowly missing the men's faces. The horse thrashed in pain as various barbs pierced deeper into his skin, scrambling to get a grip beneath his hooves to push himself up, before suddenly falling still and rasping in misery.

" _Sorry!_ " both soldiers breathed at the same time, glancing at each other. They quickly averted their eyes and the German soldier stepped back, turning to his fort.

"We need more wire cutters!" his speech was coarse from his accent, but multiple tools were thrown over his fort's wall, spinning gracefully as they tumbled into the water on the other side. Not willing to follow them, both soldiers turned their backs and made do with the one pair.

The horse tensed at first, but with soothing sounds from the men he calmed enough to allow them to touch again, gaze cautious.

 _Careful._

It was slow work. After some time his head was free, and as the wire close to his eyes was cut loose the animal slowly lifted his head and shook out his mane, a soft groan escaping his chest. With a relieved sigh – that was more of a snort through his nostrils – he turned quiet eyes to the pair watching him, gently nudging the closest soldier and urging them on.

 _Keeping going, come on._

The pair traded words as they worked in sync, and amused chuckles were torn from both of them as the horse listened and watched. For the animal it was interesting, observing how two enemies could come together in a time of need, and how their instincts could sometimes overrule their funny intellect.

The human mind was a complex thing.

With one final click, the pair freed the horse's legs and stood back as he surged slowly but powerfully to his feet. With a slight stagger, a spirited toss of his head and a pleased snort, he lowered his muzzle to nudge at the pair, brown eyes glittering with gratitude.

If the soldiers did not know any better, they would have thought the horse understood everything they had said.

 _Thank you._

The companionable silence was short-lived, as the soldiers began to bicker over who would take the animal home. Slowly the horse's head drooped, and he released a loud breath that sounded suspiciously like a long-suffering sigh, which had both men pausing to stare.

Eventually a coin was tossed, and the young Brit crowed in delight. The change in tone perked the beast's attention, and his head lifted as the boy took a hold of his reins.

"Come on, boy," the soldier cooed, slowly leading the horse back to his country's side of the land. A few metres away he turned and raised a hand in polite parting to the older man, shouting a warm farewell, and the horse turned to call out his own cheerful goodbye.

 _Thank you, for your bravery_.

The German watched until both man and beast vanished in the mist.


End file.
